


Marks of Ownership

by gentlezombie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bruises, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-03
Updated: 2009-08-03
Packaged: 2019-09-20 15:41:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17025444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlezombie/pseuds/gentlezombie
Summary: Sam gets possessive. Dean enjoys the hell out of it.





	Marks of Ownership

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written for the spnkink_meme prompt: "Sam/Dean, possessive!Sam, bruising. Sam gets off on seeing the fingershaped bruises he leaves on Dean's body and Dean figures it out and makes sure to fuck with him, always wearing short-sleeved shirts and generally being a huge tease. Bonus points if someone else asks about the bruises and Dean abruptly gets all shy about it." What can I say, that meme inspires me.
> 
> Written ages ago, reposted from LJ.

Dean’s doing it on purpose.

Sam’s not fooled by the wide-eyed, baffled stare he gets when he tells Dean to stop it. He knows his brother better than anyone and knows that look of pure innocence for the calculating deception it is. Dean knows damn well what he’s doing. The jerk.

Take this morning, for instance. Dean’s sitting on the bed, flipping through the paper propped against his knees. His other hand is playing seemingly unconsciously with the hem of his shirt – and why does it feel like all of Dean’s shirts have gotten shorter and tighter nowadays? Sam suspects the cunning of his brother more than the local Laundromat as his gaze is unavoidably drawn to the revealed strip of tanned skin. To Dean’s thumb doing small circles over the dark bruise on his hip. It’s maddening, the movement, the slow cover and reveal, and Sam wants to rip the shirt right off, see everything. The evidence of last night, of Sam on Dean. 

The thing is, Sam loves to see marks on Dean. Not the scars and bruises left by others, monsters and humans who too often are one and the same. Those marks he hates because they are not left by him. They tell him that someone else was here before him, got to touch Dean intimately enough to leave a lasting reminder, and he does not like others to touch what he thinks of as his. But he loves the bruises and bite marks he leaves on Dean’s skin, the hitch in Dean’s breath as he leaves fingerprints that last to the next day.

Unfortunately, Dean figured out just how much Sam likes it and how easy it is to get him hot and bothered. Dean thinks it’s hilarious, and he uses every opportunity to show off the bruises. And yeah, maybe Sam should cut it back a bit, because there sure are a lot of them, around Dean’s wrists and on his hips where Sam’s thumbs pressed deep and on his biceps where Sam held him down and on his neck where Sam’s fingers felt for his pulse, found it, held tight until Dean came with a soundless cry.

Dean doesn't bury himself beneath layers of clothing anymore. He blames the heat, but Sam remembers worse heat waves that Dean sweated stubbornly through wearing three shirts and a leather jacket. If this is what it takes to get Dean to stop hiding his body, and a nice body it is, Sam’s okay with that. But this is his brother who wouldn't know subtle if it kicked him in the face, and it’s getting pretty damn distracting. 

They’re heading off to breakfast and Dean’s wearing a blue, sleeveless shirt, a small, tight thing that Sam remembers his brother used to sleep in a good few years back. It looks great on him, and it reveals everything, every signature Sam left on him. The necklace of bruises around his neck stands out darkly. Dean strolls down the street confidently, his hair still mussed from sleep, slutty and pretty and Sam’s fighting down the urge to molest him right there. He hates admitting to Dean that he’s affected, but he’s getting desperate here.

“Do you have to wear that thing?” Sam hisses to his brother.

“It’s my favorite shirt, Sammy,” Dean says, “’course I’m wearing it.”

“That’s not your favorite shirt. Your favorite shirt got torn to shreds by the swarm of angry pixies last week.”

“You said it. This is my new favorite shirt,” Dean says.

There’s no arguing with Dean when he’s like that, or rather, there’d be lots of arguing and exasperation and maybe a punch or two, and it’s still too early in the morning for that. This started with the disappearing layers, progressed to t-shirts and tank tops, and what’s next? Maybe a pair of short cut-off jeans so Dean can show off the bruises on his ass too, Sam thinks moodily. Somehow that image is not helping.

When they reach the diner, people stare. Sam’s painfully aware of the way everyone’s pretending not to look. The pretty, blond waitress does not even try, her eyes huge like saucers as she takes their order. Dean chats her up like usual, doesn't realize the reason for her attention. He munches happily on his muffin, complimenting the combination of blueberries and chocolate with his mouth full. Sam sips on his latte and tries not to hope that the earth would swallow him up, because you never know when the next stupid urban legend is going to come true.

Dean gets up to go to the bathroom and the blond waitress is there again, worry plain on her face.

“Are you all right?” Sam hears her ask. She’s eyeing him nervously over her shoulder.

“Sure, darling,” Dean answers, perplexed. “Beautiful morning, great view,” his eyes wander a bit too far south from the girl’s face, “and the best muffins in the state. I’m more than okay.”

The girl looks still concerned, chewing on her lower lip. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” she says, “I had this boyfriend once, I know how it is… But just know that if you want to talk to someone, and I really think you should, you can always call us.” She slips him a small card.

By then Sam’s buried his face in his hands. Dean returns to their table with a confused but happy grin on his face. “Dude, she gave me her number.”

He turns the card around. It reads, in red, curvy letters on white background, _“Women Against Abuse”_.

“Wait, what?” Dean flushes bright red when the realization hits him. The girl’s still giving him the pitying, knowing eyes. Sam bets she’d know a way or two to comfort his poor abused brother, and he’s had about enough.

Sam drags Dean up by the wrist, squeezing harder than necessary and making him wince. He hears a few gasps around the room and realizes that he isn't actually helping his case. A couple of young guys are shifting his way, probably considering their chances in taking out the boyfriend-beating maniac. Great. Local gay solidarity.

“We’re leaving,” he announces to the room, “and he’s coming with me. You can call the police after us, but we’re leaving town so I’d advice you to save yourself the trouble.”

He looks around, daring anybody to stop them, but the other customers’ survival instincts are better than average. Suddenly most people seem to be very interested in their newspapers and pancakes.

“Come on, honey,” Sam says icily to Dean and marches them out of the diner. Dean knows better than to complain about the muffin he hadn't finished.

“What the hell was going on back there?” Dean asks as they’re hurrying down the street.

“I wonder what,” Sam grounds out. “Other than that they thought you were my boyfriend who I was beating black and blue.”

“Well, technically, that’s correct,” Dean grins, probably to cover his embarrassment.

“So you hate it that much, huh?” Sam hisses, shoving Dean inside their motel room and slamming the door shut behind them.

“What’re you mad about, Sammy? At least it was better than telling them the truth!”

“The truth.” Sam’s all up in Dean’s space now, pressing him against the wall, feeling the rapid rise and fall of Dean’s chest against his own. “That you like to get fucked by your brother? That you’d beg for it like a bitch? That you love to be owned and marked, fucking crave for it?”

“No I don’t,” Dean says, but Sam feels him shiver.

“Liar,” Sam says and bites on Dean’s lower lip. Dean’s quick to crash their mouths together, but Sam holds on until Dean lets out a strangled sound, presses his hips to Sam’s. 

The way Dean looks at him then explains why Sam puts up with him. Eyes bright, lip swollen, getting off on letting Sam do this. 

“I’ve had enough of your shit,” Sam tells him, rubbing a deceptively gentle hand over the old bruises on Dean’s neck. “You’ve been driving me crazy for weeks now, showing off to everybody.”

“What you gonna do about it?” Dean smirks, not even bothering to deny anything, and that attitude is exactly what always gets them into trouble.

“Letssee”, Sam says conversationally, as he backs them down towards the bed. “I could fuck you up real good, make you sorry for fucking with me, you’d be sore for days. But you’d like that, wouldn't you?”

They land on the bed and Sam crawls up Dean’s body, takes a hold of his wrists.

“Or I could take you gently, pretend you were a virgin, tease you for hours and drive you insane and not leave a single mark on you. Oh I’d get you off, but you’d never get that little something you say you don’t even need.”

“C’mon, Sam,” Dean says a bit uncertainly, “you don’t wanna do that.”

“This isn’t about what I want, Dean,” Sam says sweetly, leaning down to press a soft kiss on Dean’s lips, “it’s about what you want. I’m willing to make sacrifices for you.”

The look on Dean’s face as he realizes he’s trapped is priceless. Almost as priceless as his desperation as Sam makes good of his promise. It takes a lot of self-control on Sam’s part to keep it slow, but it’s so worth it.

Dean’s on his stomach, his wrists tied together with a scarf, because he kept trashing and hurting himself. He’s panting, trying to rub himself against the bed as Sam places butterfly kisses along his spine, his fingers gently teasing along the crack of his ass. Slowly, ever so slowly, Sam lets his tongue slide downwards and brush over Dean’s asshole. Dean lets out a strangled sound, and Sam smiles as he licks circles around the hole, presses a little bit inside. This is the third time he’s doing this. They've got all the time in the world.

As he pushes inside Dean, he has to use a hand between Dean’s shoulder blades to push him down and hold him still. Dean’s making a valiant effort of trying to fuck himself on Sam’s cock, but Sam won’t let him, stops completely until his brother’s lying quivering on the bed.

“I’ll make you feel so good, baby,” Sam whispers to him with a gentle roll of his hips, and Dean whimpers in despair.

“I don’t want you to make it good,” he mumbles, his voice muffled against the pillow.

“What’s that?” Sam asks, taking evil delight in this. “Is this going too fast for you?”

“Goddammit, Sammy, get on with it! I’m fucking desperate here!”

“I won’t,” Sam tells him, kissing the back of his neck, “until you tell me what you want.”

Dean quiets. Sam pets his sweaty hair.

“We can always start all over again.”

Dean swallows, licks his dry lips.

“I want you to fuck me.” It’s barely audible.

“I’m already doing that,” Sam points out.

“Fuck you!” Dean yells, the last of his restraint broken. “Fuck me, push me down, bite me, mark me, fuckin’ make me take it! Won’t you fuckin’ fuck me already!”

It’s not the most articulate of pleas but it’s music to Sam’s ears anyway. 

“Was that so hard?” Sam says, his hands finding their places on Dean’s hips. God, it’s been hard not to touch Dean like he wanted to.

“Fucker,” Dean mutters, but it turns into a yelp as Sam pulls out almost completely and thrusts back in hard. He sets up a punishing rhythm, his fingers digging into tanned flesh, and Dean’s arching his back, fucking back into him, wild under Sam now that he finally gets to move. Sam pulls Dean’s head back by the hair and bites at the junction of collarbone and neck, and Dean all but howls. 

Dean’s almost sitting in Sam’s lap now, and Sam takes a hold of his thighs and makes him ride him, the muscles in Sam’s arms doing most of the work. The new angle’s got Dean squirming and writhing and making little pleased noises with every thrust of Sam’s cock. Dean’s own cock is hard and leaking against his stomach, and after all the teasing he’s been put through Sam barely has to touch his cock to bring him off. Dean tenses all over as he comes, his mouth open, green eyes staring unfocused at the ceiling, and Sam isn't far behind him.

Dean’s lying very still as Sam eases out of him, his breathing still uneven. There are fresh bruises to add to the collection, and Dean has managed to rub the skin of his wrists raw on the scarf they were tied with. Sam has no idea how he did that, but he touches the reddened skin tenderly, smiling to himself. Dean cracks his eyes open.

“What?” he grunts, still out of it but daring Sam to say something.

“Nothing,” Sam says, ruffling Dean’s hair and grinning at his brother’s grimace. “We need to get out of here. The good townsfolk have let us alone for now, but if we stick around, they’re gonna send the cops after our asses.”

When Sam’s located his clothes again he turns to Dean, who’s only got his jeans on. The dark blue shirt is lying between the bed and the nightstand, the innocent cause of much aggravation. Dean’s eyeing it cautiously.

Sam sighs and goes to pick it up.

“Your new favorite shirt, right?” he says, handing it to Dean.

Dean grins at him. “Definitely.”


End file.
